


Jesse's Girl

by whenWinstonmetJames



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Georgie has a crush, High School AU, M/M, everyone studies music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-04 00:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6632962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenWinstonmetJames/pseuds/whenWinstonmetJames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George Harrison is sixteen. He is in the tenth grade, playing guitar and doing not much else. Paul McCartney is seventeen, a year above George, and in George's eyes? Perfect. Paul McCartney is also, much to George's chagrin, taken. In love. All those other ridiculous damn phrases. No matter how much George tries, he can't hate Paul or his stupid boyfriend. Far from it, he finds himself desperately trying to impress them while dealing with a pair of eyes that have found their way to him.</p><p>It's going to be a long year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Paul Is A Show-Off

**Author's Note:**

> So, finally, a second story. Should I continue? Warmth was well received, and I'm definitely wondering what y'all think of this. Please, feel free to comment or give kudos: feedback feeds the starving artist!

The first thing George noted as he walked towards the school for the first day was the state of utter disrepair it was in. The bricks were faded, the sidewalks were cracked, and a proper curtain of lush green ivy crawled up the walls. 

George shook his head as he neared the door. Do they water the weeds? 

He let himself get swept along with the crowd, and the moment he walked in the doors, he discovered that the look of the outside was, in fact, indicative of the state of the inside. The place smelled, of mold and the slight stench of ammonia. The walls seemed to have the shadows of mold on them, and the ceiling had peculiar stains on them that asked more questions than they answered. 

He fought the forward motion of the crowd and leaned against a wall between sections of lockers, by a poster advertising, ”Summer School- It’s never too late!” He took the brief respite to look at the map clutched in his hands, on which he’d marked his locker and all his classes. He had eight forty-five minute classes, the materials for which he’d placed in the over-stuffed backpack that was currently digging its straps into his shoulders. 

He snapped his head out of his thoughts, and quickly scanned the map and located his locker on the second floor. Luckily, there was a fairly large group of people going upstairs, and he found his locker without much trouble. The combination he’d memorized over the summer, and before long he’d opened it and shoved his backpack inside. He glanced again at his map and schedule, and snatched the binder for his first class- English with a man who was listed as “Professor Martin”.

The room was cold, and the room was filled with teenagers milling about, avoiding sitting as much as possible. The man sitting at the front desk had brown hair shot with gray and a thin face with dark eyes that shined even as he looked down at the papers on his desk. The kids in the room, George noted (not without some disappointment) were entirely freshmen by the looks. He made the conscious decision to let the class pass with his usual attitude on first days- a half-focused state that zeroed in only on information his subconscious deemed ‘important’- which could be anything from stories to syllabi. But it was indeed a tried-and-true method. It had carried him through many a history class with a solid B-average. He expected nothing more today.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The class passed as expected- the majority regarding the curriculum and materials. However, George was pleasantly surprised when the professor decided to dedicate the final half hour to getting to know his students, letting them tell him just as much as he told them. For this portion, George found himself becoming engaged almost against his will, the professor’s concise voice making him feel at ease to properly introduce himself, something he never thought he’d do. 

As George made the short trip back to his locker, he grinned down at his schedule when he read his next class: Music, with a woman called Mrs. Clayton.  
George possessed a great love of music- even though he’d only been playing guitar for three years, he’d already passed his peers. The main reason he’d attended this school was that it allowed him to choose a single subject to have a sort of double-block; instead of a forty-five minute class, he forfeited his study hall for an hour and a half of music. And he wasn’t alone. Not only that, but two weeks before the school year started, he got an invoice asking him to take his instrument and drop it off at the school building. When he first read that, he thought his heart would explode- they’d let him play his own guitar! It almost felt too good be true.

Unable to wipe the grin the memory brought him off his face, he walked to the band room with a stride filled with unadulterated glee. This was what he came here for.  
As with his English class, the large band room was filled with noise. He looked around as he entered, noting the plethora of black and brown cases piled against the wall with a heavy thrum of excitement in his chest. Casting his gaze toward the podium, he saw that each of the chairs placed around it had its own music stand. He found Mrs. Clayton quickly, a large black woman wearing a coat of light pink that looked almost like a nightshirt. Her desk and the wall surrounding it had a few certificates, mainly for teaching, and also had several old record sleeves for everything from hard rock to jazz.

George thought he would like this class. 

When the bell rang, George simply took a seat at the end of the row closest to him and placed his folder on the obviously aged music stand. George glanced to the left of him, at the boy who was seated next to him, and felt the breath leave his lungs.

He was gorgeous. 

He had large, expressive eyes that were brown flecked with green, with thick, black, delicately curved eyelashes. George could stare into those eyes for hours. He had cheeks that were chubby, but not unappealing, and a small and straight nose. His lips- George had to tear his eyes from those lips. They were soft and pink, plump and delicately curved. He had all the features that seemed fit for a girl, but you’d have to be blind to think anything of the sort. He was leaned back in his chair, his hands stuffed into the pockets of a worn leather jacket. There were boots on his feet, and one of his jean-clad legs was crossed over the other. 

George shook his head, and finally turned his eyes forward. The cute boy could wait. George had a music class to get to, and he wasn’t missing it for the world.

“Hello, there.” Mrs. Clayton began, in a voice that was deep and kind, yet firm. She spoke like a mother. “Welcome to music. I assume all of you already play an instrument, yes?” There was a brief moment for the class to murmur their answers. “If you don’t, please tell me or an administrator, because we are working off the assumption that you do.” A few kids frown, but nobody speaks up. Mrs. Clayton smiled, and clasped her hands in front of her. “Good, very good. Now, this class isn’t exactly a class to teach you how to play an instrument, but it is a class to teach you how to get better. How many guitarists do we have?” 

George grinned, and most of the class raised their hands. “Good, good.” Clayton continued. “Now, any bassists?” 

At this, George noticed something odd. The boy beside him had raised his hands for guitar, and was raising his hand again. 

“Drummers?” 

There it was again! This boy claimed to be able to play all of those instruments?

Mrs. Clayton smiled. “Now, for kicks, keyboard and piano?” 

And the boy’s hand was up again. It seemed George wasn’t the only one to notice, too. “Well,” Mrs. Clayton began, now looking right at the boy. “It seems we have a one-man band on our hands. Young man, what is your name?” 

The boy grinned. 

“Paul, miss. Paul McCartney.” 

She nodded. “Well, Paul, can you play all the instruments you claim to?” 

Paul nodded, his eyes sparkling. “I can, miss. And a bit of trumpet.” 

The other kids seemed to be glaring at him, all except a few. The boy on Paul’s other side, a boy with old-fashioned hair and a Roman nose, was simply grinning.

“Well, Paul, I don’t want you to think we don’t trust you, but I think we’d all enjoy a demonstration.” George was afraid that Paul might be offended at her words, but he only grinned wider.

“Sure, miss. May I get my guitar?”

She nodded, and the rest of the class stared disbelievingly. Paul walked over to the wall, and pulled a simple Gretsch acoustic-electric from a reddish case. He returned to his seat, and propped the guitar on his knee. 

“How are we supposed to believe he can play if he holds the guitar the wrong way round?” Someone sneered, and Paul only chuckled. “Lefty.” He said simply. “Any requests?”

A few songs were called out, but Mrs. Clayton’s voice is the one he listened to. “Play something old. Something good.” She said simply, and Paul grinned.

“Sure thing.”

He started to strum, and picked up the pace. Quite suddenly, he burst out singing, and George recognized it in an instant. Long Tall Sally, by Little Richard. He found himself bobbing along, and his heart skipped a beat when the boy smiled at him. He didn’t play the whole thing, only a few verses, but the message was clear: yes, I can. 

The entire class was impressed. That much was clear. But Paul wasn’t done. “I do play the others.” He said, and carefully replaced his guitar in its case. There was a drum kit set in the back of the room, and he didn’t hesitate to sit behind it and pick up the sticks. He started to play something simple, but it soon evolved into something complex. A few kids were nodding along, and George noticed a boy with blue eyes and a rather large nose even moving his hands with the drumbeat. Paul was grinning infectiously, and finally stopped drumming. “It’s easy. Though I hate to be a show-off.” He rose from the drums, and returned to his seat. Mrs. Clayton was smiling. 

“Thank you, Paul. This was a great way to start our year.” She said warmly, and once she’d sat, George heard the murmurs from around the room. Show-off, they said. This isn’t a movie. Who does he think he is? 

George almost wished he could echo them, but Paul was sitting down and looking at him and his mind altogether stopped working.


	2. In Which George Is Surprised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul are really gay. That's about it. No sex this time, but you'll get that soon enough. Georgie will get the dates and times for band practice next class- but you've got at least a John chapter before that happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it goes! Everyone seemed to like the first part- at lease, those who read it. I'm optimistic!

 

                Paul knew he was a show-off. Frankly, he didn’t care. He knew he’d impressed them, and the teacher, too. She seemed like an interesting lady, with her vintage records and strangely informal dress style. He wanted her to like him, and as he returned to his seat, he was fairly sure he had accomplished his goal.

                He saw the boy at the end of the row starring at him, and grinned. The boy couldn’t have been older than him, but didn’t look much younger, either. He was a small sort of boy, though, all high cheekbones and dark hair. His eyes were dark, too, and wide as he looked up at Paul. The boy was swallowed by a dark blue hoodie, and Paul caught sight of a necklace bearing the Om symbol against his chest. His fingers were long where they curled in his lap, tips bearing the familiar callouses of a guitar player.

Paul sidled past him, sitting down comfortably and sitting back. He was tugged from his reverie on the new boy by the feeling of a hand sliding comfortably into his. It was a pleasant feeling, utterly familiar. Paul looked up at the owner of said hand, smiling affectionately.

There was John.

Sitting by him in all his faux-teddy glory, a little smirk playing about his lips and showing his slight pride. His boyfriend, the love of his life. No matter what that young new boy thought of him, it would be neither here nor there. He loved John, more than he could ever love the other. Though their love had been marked by early difficulties, he knew they were now inseparable. They had met at a fair, of all places, and attraction had been instant. John’s aunt was their biggest block, hating the fact that Paul was from what she had considered ‘the wrong side of the tracks’ and the sheer concept of their relationship. It had been hard- Paul would admit that in a bloody second. But it was worth it. Incredibly worth it, because now this beautiful boy was his.

He felt John squeeze his hand, and affection surged in his veins. God, he loved John so much.

“Now,” He heard Mrs. Clayton begin, “that was a very nice demonstration. However, we must now turn our attention to the rest of the class, and the rest of the year.” She shuffled the papers on her own podium, and Paul sat up straight to pay attention. John didn’t release his hand, and he saw the kid tear his eyes away.

“Assuming you all play various instruments, we will spend the rest of the year split up into ‘bands’.” She said, her tone businesslike. Everyone in the room murmured excitedly, shifting in their seats and looking around at their friends. This was important, and they knew it- bands meant band names, meant songs and gigs and all things exciting.

“These bands will be split up by instrument, each one with one or two guitars, and the other instruments as they can be come by. However, you ought to have a certain sound. If you get a bassist, you can be reggae, you can be bluesy, or you could be classic-style rock. Same for something like a saxophone, or another classical stringed instrument.”

She let the words sink into her eager audience, who were by now scooting to the literal edge of their seats. She knew that they likely didn’t want to just hear her monologue for all the class, and so they must begin. “This class,” She said, trying to calm the children, “we will be getting ourselves into these groups and finding out where we’ll be for the rest of the year.”

The babble didn’t cease at her words, if anything, it only grew. John and Paul shifted excitedly by each other, knowing that they had more than enough instruments between them to justify being in a band together. Even beyond that- they already had a band. Thus unnamed but still going strong, they’d played gigs as a hundred different names. When they’d begun they’d been five strong, and it was simply John’s. After Paul joined the number dwindled, and they now found themselves three: John, Paul, and the newest addition, a blue-eyed drummer who called himself Ringo.

Paul took it upon himself to catch Ringo’s eye, grinning to the older boy and nodding a bit. Similar motions were happening all over the room, as friends made silent deals and alliances.

“Now,” Mrs. Clayton called, waiting for the room to become silent. It did, and the high ceiling was now only echoing back the sounds of shuffling and muffled coughs, “here comes the time where I find out what sort of class you are, and if I can trust you for things like this.”

Another small murmur of excitement flared in the room, but it shortly died down. Paul glanced to the boy beside him. He had raised his hand for guitar, and the idea of having a pure guitarist in the band had always interested Paul. ‘Besides’, Paul thought with a little grin, ‘if he thinks I’m such good eye candy, he’ll join easily.’

“You can split up and find your groups,” Clayton continued, “and come to me when they’re finished so I can improve them. Next class, I’ll be asking you for a name and a style of music.”

Now that, that was what truly brought chaos to the room. Kids were standing up almost immediately, Paul and John and the boy beside them being no exception. Ringo found them quickly, and Paul grinned broadly at him.

“Think we’ve got a leg up on the competition?” He asked breezily, glancing around at the other students. “Already havin’ a band and all.”

The skinny boy was standing rather awkwardly beside him still, glancing around nervously.

“Probably.” It was John who answered, hands stuffed into jacket pockets easily. Paul grinned at him, and shoved his own hands into his pockets. He looked once more at the skinny boy, and cocked his head.

“Hey,” he called, “you’re a guitarist, aren’t ya? C’mere.”

The boy looked floored, and walked over as if in a daze. His eyes were glued to Paul’s face, and Paul grinned slyly when he felt John’s arm wrap defensively around his waist.

“You’re Paul,” the boy said, voice a bit strained. “Hi. I’m- I’m George.”

Paul nodded and smiled, holding out his hand to shake. “Nice to meet you, George.”

George nodded, albeit shaky, and smiled around. Paul could see he was nervous, and he relaxed into John almost in an effort to calm the other with a tranquil demeanor.

“This is John,” Paul said, a slight smile twitching at his lips. His next words were certain to get a reaction. “my boyfriend.”

George’s lip was between his teeth in a flash, sharp points digging in. His eyes had blown wide, and Paul thought he heard the softest intake of breath in the loud room. He didn’t quite feel bad for the other, having felt the same way before, but he still felt a small pang in his chest at the clearly defeated look.

“This blue-eyed fellow is Ringo, he’s the drummer in our humble little band.” Paul finished easily. George nodded, and his voice was hoarse when he spoke.

“An- an’ you want me to join?” He asked weakly.

Paul nodded and grinned, before wrapping his own arm around John’s waist in turn. “Yup,” he said pleasantly. “John plays guitar and I can do just about anything, so we can use a second guitarist. What sort of music do you play?”

He saw George glance down briefly, fingering his necklace. “I like rock and roll,” the boy said as he looked up. “And it looks like you two do, too.”

John grinned at that. He knew as well as Paul did the particular look they were going for, and it was always a positive to have someone recognize it.

“That’s right,” He said, nigh on proudly. “Proper teds, we are.”

George smiled even wider, and stepped a bit closer. “That’s really cool. So, do we have a name?”

Paul, John, and Ringo looked between themselves, and raised their voices unanimously.

“Nope!”

 

* * *

 

 

                For John and Paul, going home was nearly always an adventure. Most of the time, on days like today, they walked together to Paul’s house. Jim would be at work and Mike at football practice, so they always had time alone.

                John, quite clearly, planned to capitalize on this.

                The moment they walked in the front door and had taken off their jackets, Paul was against the wall with John’s lips on his. He felt smothered for a fleeting second, before remembering who it was and wrapping his arms around him. John had always loved to surprise him like this, and Paul had never had any qualms with it. Now, however. . .

                “John,” Paul gasped, tangling a hand in John’s hair and pulling their mouths apart, “we shouldn’t do this. We have stuff to work on.”

The older boy only grinned and took Paul’s hand, pulling him off the wall and upstairs.

                “C’mon, Paulie, live a little!” John said happily. He opened the door to Paul’s door with practiced ease, and tossed Paul gently onto the bed. “You know how you can get me excited.”

                The last words were a teasing purr, as John crawled onto the bed and straddled his lover. Paul was well used to this positon, and he found himself settling under John without truly intending to.

                “John,” he began, but was cut off by a tender yet deep kiss. “John, c’mon. . .” he tried weakly. John wasn't perturbed, and simply moved to kiss Paul's neck.

                “Joooohn. . .”

                The last time it came out, it was a moan, and Paul knew he was helpless.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, tell me what you think! Remember- feedback feeds the starving artist!

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, I know it isn't great. I wrote the beginning a long time ago, but I'd definitely love to continue it! And as well, I know I will if I can be sure people want to see it.


End file.
